by Rona Randall
And what precisely ‘that sort of thing’ was she scarcely comprehended, because when Jessica had explained how their pets mated and gave birth she, Phoebe, had decided that such nasty habits must surely be confined only to animals, and this she still half believed. Children would come by some mysterious and acceptable process, in time and with God’s good grace, making her the youngest and prettiest mother in the whole of Burslem and yet another cause for envy — and if there was anything Phoebe enjoyed it was the envy of her friends. And of course the children would be model children, always spotless, always well behaved, the boys handsome and the girls as pretty as herself, but perhaps not quite so pretty because the idea of being eclipsed by daughters somehow lacked appeal, but they would certainly be a credit to her and another cause for admiration.
As for the actual business of conception, whatever took place it would be over quickly and be repeated only when convention decreed that it was time for a young mother to produce more offspring. And of course Max would do it in the most gentlemanly way, sparing her any embarrassment. If other brides as ladylike as herself had gone through it, it could not possibly be as crude as the mating of animals.
This conviction was reinforced by the fact that since her mother had produced ten children dear Papa must have done it to dear Mamma ten times, a simple reckoning which convinced Phoebe that whatever-it-was could not be unbearable, for her mother had remained devoted to dear Papa to the end of his days and had he done anything unpleasant to her — and as often as ten times! — she would surely not have loved him for it.
This thought enabled Phoebe to fall back on dreaming again, so much so that when her mother, pink with embarrassment, said, “My dear, I think perhaps we should have a talk…there are things you must know…” she guessed at once that she was going to talk about whatever-it-was, and since she didn’t really want to know the details Phoebe had hastily forestalled her.
“Dear Mamma, there is no need. I love Max and he loves me and everything will be wonderful between us.” She had almost added that because he was a gentleman she was confident he would never do anything to which she could object, but there had been no need because dear Mamma, though looking as if she had not expected to be let off so lightly, at the same time looked relieved and went back to her needlework very happily.
It was shortly after that brief conversation that Mamma had fallen asleep in her chair and Phoebe had slipped up to her room, locked her door, and immodestly studied her body before donning the bridal nightgown, her fancy taking flight as she felt the softness of silk against her skin. As in fairy tales, she knew that the culmination of romance would come with the wedding ceremony, the bridal gown, the gifts, the music, the flowers, the admiration, and finally the kiss after husband and wife had disrobed separately, he in a dressing room from which he would not emerge until she had granted him permission. By that time she, the bride, would be waiting for him in bed, looking enchanting in a lace cap tied with satin ribbons, her red-gold ringlets falling about her shoulders and her befrilled nightdress covering her entirely. And he would approach, very handsome in a long brocaded dressing robe, then kneel beside the bed and kiss her hand as if she were a goddess and he her humble worshipper.
The dream ended with the candles extinguished before he shed his outer robe and slipped between the bedclothes, gathering her in his arms reverently and cradling her throughout the night, so that when she wakened in the morning she would find his arms still round her, the bed linen scarcely ruffled and her beautiful bridal nightgown still covering her with becoming modesty.
The dream had continued when Mamma helped her into her hooped wedding gown of silver-threaded damask embroidered with pearls and bugel beads. Her slippers were of matching damask with elaborately curved wooden heels nearly three inches high, and with toes so pointed that they pinched at every step. She wore stockings knitted in silk and tied just above the knees with woven garters bearing a design of wild flowers in varied colours; in fact, her legs looked so pretty that she almost regretted they could not be seen. On her head she wore a sparkling Pompon with a single curling feather and in her hand she carried a fan of silver gauze encrusted with seed pearls and even tinier bugels.
The whole ensemble won Joseph’s instant approval. That it had strained his mother’s limited means did not occur to him, nor that as a result she had been forced to renovate her best silk semi-hooped gown in the hope that no one would recognise it. Apart from himself, the only important member of the Drayton family this day was Phoebe, and she did him credit. With pride he escorted her from Medlar Croft to the Tremain chapel, and with pride she drove there at his side.
“‘You look splendid, brother. I am proud of you.”
He smiled on her benignly, well aware that her praise was justified. He looked more than splendid in full dress wear. His tight waisted, widely skirted coat of purple satin, adorned with gold embroidery, reached to just below the knees and was folded back from waist to hem, the better to reveal narrowly cuffed breeches of lavender satin. Matching silk hose and slippers buckled in gold displayed his well-shaped calves and ankles, and the whole ensemble was set off with elaborate falls of lace at throat and wrists. He wore a formal wig.
The setting for the marriage service was all a bride could hope for, the chapel fragrant with massed flowers from the Tremain hothouses, sacred music played by a sextet of stringed instrumentalists, and magnificently dressed guests buzzing with excitement. When she appeared, murmurs of admiration swept like a tide through the assembly. A group of young men near the chancel steps even shouted compliments, some of which brought blushes to her cheeks although she did not wholly understand them. When their disapproving elders commanded them to be silent, their laughter was unrestrained. Phoebe was surprised by such behaviour for, although she had attended weddings before and knew that guests were there to enjoy themselves, she had never heard quite so much jollity until after the ceremony. And a glimpse of her future father-in-law’s face told her that for some reason he was angry.
But the magic held, even when the group of rowdy young men parted and the groom stepped from their midst to claim his bride. Maxwell was smiling broadly, his face flushed, his eyes more than usually bright, and when she placed her hand in his she was surprised to find it somewhat clammy. Of course, the overcrowded chapel was not so large as the parish church, and the August afternoon was exceptionally hot, so it was not to be wondered that his face was flushed and his palm perspiring. Despite this, he looked exceptionally handsome in cloth of gold, elaborately self-embroidered. She even had the fleeting thought that he almost eclipsed the bride, but the admiration in his eyes reassured her and her dreams remained.
It was when they were driving from the chapel to her brother’s house that her adored Max surprised her by saying it was a pity the carriage had to be an open one.
“But no one would see us if it were not, my dearest.”
“Which is exactly what I mean, my love.”
“Would you disappoint so many who have come for miles to see us? They were grouped at the gates as we drove through, did you not see?” She fluttered her sparkling fan at him, smiling archly over the edge.
“To hell with ogling peasants. In a closed carriage I could have a quick foretaste. The journey to Carrion House would give me enough time for that.”
His face seemed even more flushed and she could feel the heat of his body as he pressed against her side. She started to protest that he was crushing her gown, but he silenced her by covering her mouth with his and kissing her in a way she had never experienced before, his tongue thrusting in and out repeatedly. Even worse, he pushed a hot and clammy hand beneath her skirts. The movement was swift and assured, and so was the touch of his fingers on her bare thighs. Instinct warned her to press them together before those probing fingers reached further. She wanted to cry out in protest, but his thrusting tongue checked all but her startled gasps, then with one frantic movement she was free and his hand fell away. Desperately, she s
traightened her skirts. She was trembling, but not with excitement.
“Good God,” said Max, aggrieved, “why the fuss? You’re my wife now.”
She cast a fearful glance at the coachman’s implacable back and then over her shoulder at the outrider, relieved to see that he stared straight ahead. Thank heaven neither man had seen anything, and pray God the creaking of wheels and the sounds of hooves had rendered them deaf. Thank heaven, too, that the knot of spectators had been left behind, that they were now driving along a stretch of deserted lane, and that the rest of the procession followed at some distance.
She searched wildly for her fan. Shock and embarrassment made her feel quite faint.
Max slumped against the padded upholstery, scowling.
“I would have you know, my dear wife, that a jolting carriage is quite a good place in which to do it. I have found it so, many times. It can speed things up very handily.”
She hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant, nor why he should snigger as if he had cracked a rare joke, but she was too busy searching for her fan to give it any thought. The horrible moment was over; the important thing now was to regain her composure.
“For God’s sake, Phoebe, what are you fidgeting for?”
“I am looking for my fan. I need my fan.”
“This it?” he asked indifferently, stooping to pick it up. It hung in shreds.
She sobbed and, faintly remorseful, he put an arm round her, pulling her close. At that she pushed him aside, begging to be left alone.
“Devil take you, Phoebe! A man has a right to handle his wife. Stop snivelling over that wretched bauble. I will buy you a dozen more, but only if you behave.”
“I fear it is you who misbehaves. I have never known you to — to — ”
“Take such liberties?” he laughed. “I never had the chance before. And if you regard that as any sort of liberty, just wait, my little love. Just wait.”
In the name of heaven, surely he did not intend to repeat it? The dream seemed to be cracking wide, like a shattered mirror. She was close to tears when, after a prolonged silence in which she could not bring herself to look at him, he took her hand and said, “I’m sorry if I frightened you. You must blame the wine. A bachelor has to celebrate his last day of freedom and I fear my friends and I extended the celebration throughout the night. You may have noticed that some looked a trifle the worse for wear. Alas, not all of them can hold their liquor as I can.” He was laughing again. “But I promise to behave, little love. At any rate, until tonight, which will far excel my last night as a bachelor. And here we are at your brother’s house. I hope his cellar is worthy of the occasion.”
It was. Staffordshire would long remember this wedding feast, but to Phoebe it passed as in a mist. The compliments showered on her, the lavish admiration, the glitter of jewels and the magnificence of both men and women, the delicious food which followed course after course, the constant recharging of goblets, the laughter and the noise and the jests which her husband and his male friends bandied between them, all passed in a daze which seemed never ending.
Of course, everything was wonderful and of course she was happy — she assured herself on that score several times, clinging to the ragged edges of her dreams — but she could scarce touch a bite nor swallow a mouthful of wine because Max’s behaviour became more shocking as the afternoon progressed. Half lolling over her as he ate — though drinking occupied more of his time — he perspired ever more freely, mopping his face and his brow until his bob-wig was askew and finally abandoned altogether. Snatching it off, he threw it across the tables to an inebriated young man who promptly put it atop his own and, pushing aside his chair, attempted to dance a jig until both wigs fell off.
But far more disturbing were the things her husband was attempting to do beneath the cloth which covered the bridal table right down to the floor. This concealment was merciful because from the start of the feast he pressed his thigh and calf against her own, his knee moving in a rhythmic way which seemed somehow suggestive, though of what she had no notion. He even entwined his leg with hers, regardless of her delicate skirts which, to her distress, tore badly. She felt the material drag and rip beneath the thrust of his demanding knee, but try as she might she could not dislodge it.
And then, horror of horrors, his hand pulled up her skirts, his other negligently holding a wine goblet as if to prove to everyone that he was doing no more than enjoying the wedding breakfast. He beamed on the assembly even as his fingers found her garter, skilfully untied it, and then remained to pinch and caress her bare thigh. She was so aghast she could scarcely breathe, but in the presence of this great company she could do nothing.
Sniggering, he whispered, “A lady’s garter is prized as a trophy — shall I throw it to my friends and watch them fight for it? No, I think not. It is my possession as much as you are, my pretty bride…”
Beneath her breath, and trying to smile as if nothing was wrong, she begged him to behave. “People will see — people will wonder what you are doing!” But that made him laugh all the more.
“They can see nothing beneath this obliging drapery, but I’d not care if they did. I’ll wager there isn’t a man here who doesn’t want to do to you what I am wanting to do, and what I intend to do the minute we are alone, and which your silly modesty denied me on the journey here. I hope it really was modesty and not prudery, for that I’d not tolerate in a wife.”
His leg moved roughly against hers.
She protested, “You are tearing my skirts!”
“I shall tear more than that if I feel so inclined.”
His flushed face was close. The smell of wine was strong on his breath. The heavy leg pressed harder. She was glad the table for bride and groom was shared with no one else, placed traditionally at the head of all others, guests ranging in four long lines down the length of the banqueting hall — Joseph’s impressive hall, magnificently decorated for the occasion — so if she smiled and pretended that nothing was amiss, no one would suspect a thing.
Somehow, she did so. Nor did she withdraw from the bridegroom’s kisses which everyone watched indulgently. She blushed becomingly when they applauded. And at least his kisses were no more than the lingering pressure of his lips, the kind she regarded as acceptable and proper and quite unlike that first shocking one in the carriage — and suddenly, for no reason, she was thinking of her sister’s quiet wedding at Sir Neville Armstrong’s home, and remembering how dull she had thought it, how small, how inferior despite being held in one of Staffordshire’s finest houses, which was surely more than Jessica deserved, and that helped considerably because her vanity swelled when comparing it with the splendour of her own.
She even sought excuses for Max’s behaviour — he was merely teasing her, she must laugh it off and forgive him — and when he took hold of her hair and pulled her head back, protesting that she was not drinking enough and pouring wine down her throat until she spluttered, she endeavoured to please him because the anger underlying the laughter in his eyes alarmed her. When she regained her breath she drank obediently, hoping he would be pacified and withdraw his forceful leg, but instead he pressed all the harder; no rhythmic movement now, just tremendous pressure until she was forced to tolerate it, even though his buckled court shoe was heavy on her foot, the heel tearing her silken hose.
Course after course, wine following wine, Max’s gold goblet — traditional for a bridegroom — forever replenished until she no longer feared he would get drunk, but knew unmistakeably that he was.
“Please, Max — no more. You have drunk enough. Your father is looking angry and your mother concerned — ”
“And your mother like a skeleton at the feast, a picture of gloom and doom. But Joseph looks benign, thank God. I suspect your brother is no saint himself.”
“Joseph never drinks too much.”
“His capacity is for things even more pleasurable, I’ll warrant.” “He has a great capacity for work, if that is what you mean.”
“It is not, little love. I will show you what I mean, later. And my own capacity for it. Meanwhile, I will drink as much as I like. I have a wager with my friends over there that I can drink them under the table and I seem to be winning. Three of them are there already.” His laughter was thick, his speech slurred, his hand hot and damp beneath her skirts, his breath foul. When she shrank from it, he laughed even more. “Drink more wine yourself, and you’ll not notice it, my pretty pet…and for God’s sake, don’t snivel like your maudlin mother over there. She has been fighting tears ever since you joined me at the altar. I cannot abide a weeping woman. Perhaps this will cure you — ”
His mouth covered hers again, encouraged by renewed laughter and cheers from his erstwhile drinking companions, one of whom rose unsteadily to toast the happy pair. To her horror Max responded by waving her garter in the air and then tying it about his head like a garland, giggling inanely while his rowdy friends applauded and colour flamed in her cheeks. Then he swayed to his feet, dragging her with him and kissing her boldly for all to see — hungrily and wetly, thrusting with his tongue in the way which had so disgusted her before. Drowning in humiliation, she struggled while his hands clung to her, tearing her bodice and exposing one shoulder and breast. Then she was suddenly free as he pitched forward, clutching the table and dragging the cloth with him to the floor.
It wasn’t until later that she recalled his hoarse exclamation. “Hell’s teeth — I’ve lost my wager!” He collapsed amidst a clatter of broken dishes.
Then she was running, clutching her bodice about her, tripping over her torn skirts and her loose stocking, sobbing, and as she ran she caught a fleeting glimpse of her mother’s horrified face; Joseph’s also, but his was still and watchful and he was not looking at her, only at Max’s inert form, and in his eyes was an expression which she later refused to credit because it seemed not only speculative, but well satisfied, and in such circumstances her dear brother would never have looked like that. Such an idea could only be due to her fraught imagination.